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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25250737">The Angel’s Messenger</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLoneLamp/pseuds/TheLoneLamp'>TheLoneLamp</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>1917 (Movie 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Idk tags are hard, My First AO3 Post, No Beta</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:15:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>609</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25250737</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLoneLamp/pseuds/TheLoneLamp</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Will Schofield cannot rest and Tom sends him a Cherry Blossom.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Angel’s Messenger</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>1917 is my favorite movie of all time, and it broke my heart each of the times I watched it. I’ve written several little scenes, and I really liked this one so... here you go.<br/>This hasn’t really been edited so I have no idea how it is.<br/>Enjoy?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I am on a mission. A mission to awake. To push forward. To remind. <br/>
I am an Angel’s Messenger. Sent from a loved one to someone on Earth to remind them that life has not lost it’s color. In this case, I am to remind of a message that must be delivered.</p><p>I cling to the cherry tree’s branch for a moment longer before joining my sisters in the plunge. We dance, we spin, we twirl, and descend towards the dark water below. Towards the half-dead man clutching a floating log. We are not afraid, though we know we will not return. We know this is our first and last mission.</p><p>His eyes close and his careworn face slips beneath the surface. <em>No.</em> We reach the water at last.</p><p>The young man resurfaces with a sound that is half sob, half sputtering cough.</p><p>His eyes seem to clear for a moment and he sees my sisters. His hand sweeps through the water and I am fought between his fingers. <em>Yes.</em> <br/>
<br/>
I send out my message in radiating waves. I do not think it worked as well as it should, but one word got across. <em>Blake. </em><br/>
<br/>
It is enough. The weary man rolls and begins a labored stroke towards the shore.</p><p>I follow in his swirling wake. The mission is not yet complete.</p><p>A fallen tree has dammed the flow of the river. A small noise of horror escaped him as he meets what bobs against that log.</p><p><em>Bodies.  </em>Some German, some French, some British.</p><p>I see him feel the pull of the water and he does the impossible to survive. He climbs over the bodies.</p><p>He chokes with suppressed cries until he reaches the shore at last. This poor boy. This broken, torn, filled to bursting with love boy.</p><p>If I were not a cherry flower petal, I believe I would cry as well. But I must see that he carries on. My sisters behind my float in blissful circles. They have forgotten.</p><p>The young man collapses onto the bank and gives up on trying to hold back his tears. His sobs rack his whole body over and over again.</p><p>I see all he has been through to get here. I see his poetic soul, his gentle, calloused hands. His childhood. His violin, his wife, his children. I watch him preform on a stage. I see him mourn his friends fallen in battle. Somehow he remains caring and soft through the brokenness of this world. Very few humans do.</p><p>A song slices through his weeping. A sad, beautiful lament. He stills and looks up. Interrupted tears trace down his cheeks.</p><p>The song summons him. It beckons, pulls, lifts him to his feet. He staggers from tree to tree until he disappeared from view. </p><p>A breeze brushes over the water and I am lifted into the air. The natural laws of gravity relinquish their grip on me- a waterlogged flower petal.</p><p>I will have to trust that he will carry on. That he remembers his message. This is the sadness of an Angel’s Messenger. We do not see our failure or success. </p><p>The breeze spins me ‘round and ‘round until the human Earth is gone. I land on the open palm of a dark haired, blue eyes man— more boy than man, truly.</p><p>He smiles widely and I know my job is well done. His Palm closes and I relish that smile a moment longer before I begin to end.</p><p>There are many types of Angel’s Messengers, from rocks, to flowers, to dreams. But in my opinion, flowers and especially cherry blossoms are the most noble and brave and true </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading this! I hope it wasn’t too horrible?<br/>Have a lovely day and please tell me if there are things I can improve on.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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